


Because of us, things came together. (Everything was possible)

by AntheaGunn



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-03-20
Packaged: 2018-03-18 15:41:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3574873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AntheaGunn/pseuds/AntheaGunn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This will be a collection of prompts I have received on tumblr. Have fun!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meeting in different cities

Clarke and Lexa keep meeting around the world in little countries when they back pack. Please.

 

1.

When you meet her for the first time you can't help thinking that she's the most beautiful thing you've even laid your eyes on.   
You are walking around Venice, just enjoying a quiet stroll through this amazing town, thinking that you wouldn't mind getting lost in a place like this.   
You would be happy just to keep walking forever, looking at the people going back and forth, noticing the leisurely pace that distinguishes the tourists from the residents.   
You duck into a small “calle” right down Rialto Bridge, just a narrow passage opening up between two tall, imposing buildings, and suddenly you find yourself standing in the middle of a small square surrounded on three sides by an elegant colonnade. The forth side overlooks the Canal Grande and you can see a small dock that's probably used to unload cargo from the ships that navigate the water. 

On the dock there is a girl. 

She sits there, looking at the canal, a sketchpad in one hand, a pencil in the other. She's facing the colonnade that's on your left and as you look at her you are stunned by how blue her eyes are, how they seem to sparkle together with the reflection of the sunset on the water. 

You don't even realize you are moving until you find yourself inexplicably in front of her and she lifts her eyes to yours.   
She observes you for a few seconds, inquisitive, and then, out of the blue, she says “Did you know that here in Venice squares are actually called fields? That's what “campo” means. Do you know why that is?”

Her lips are curled into a smirk, her voice is soft and musical and you think you could listen to her talking forever without growing tired.   
You sit down beside her, giving her your full attention, and she continues, “It's because once upon a time, before they installed a functioning water supply network, before they cemented everything, they actually were fields. You see, despite the island being surrounded by water, there wasn't actually any you could drink, so the people had to gather that which fell from the sky. Every neighborhood had one of these fields at its center, and under the grass there were these tanks that collected the water that filtered from above.   
“But every time there was high water, as it happens every few weeks, the tanks ended up filled with mud, ruining everything that was inside. So the people had to dig under the grass, get the mud out of the tank, and start all over again, every time.”

“That sounds harsh,” you say. “Kinda makes you wonder if it was really worth it.”

The girl shrugs. “The war was practically everywhere, and this was the only safe place they knew. It was still a battle for survival. Just of a different kind.”

She stands up, sketchbook under one arm, and offers you her hand. “Come on, I wanna show you something.”

You end up walking and talking almost until morning. You learn that her name is Clarke. That she's an art student from S. Francisco and she's backpacking through Italy trying to find inspiration for a portfolio to submit as her senior year project.   
You find out that she knows practically everything there is to know about Venice because she had wanted to visit since she was five years old and she saw a picture of S. Marco's square in one of her father's books.

Your phone is dead by the time she leaves you in front of your hotel, so you make her write down her number on a scrap piece of paper, an old receipt you find in your pocket.   
She's leaving tomorrow, she tells you, but she wants you to keep in touch. 

“I will,” you promise, because you can't conceive a world where you wouldn't do almost anything to spend another day with this crazy, amazing girl.  
You are trying to gather the strength to say goodbye when suddenly she kisses you. It only lasts for a moment but it still leaves you breathless.   
Before you can open your eyes, before you can ever understand what just happened, she turns away and starts walking down the street. 

You manage to catch a glimpse of the back of her head a moment before she turns the corner and disappears. 

 

//

You stay in Venice for another three days before moving south, figuring you'd make a couple of stops before going to Rome, where you'll meet with your parents and return to the states. 

You can't get Clarke out of your head. The morning after your impromptu all nighter you toss and turn in bed for a few hours before admitting defeat, and then you get dressed and leave the hotel to spend the day in one of the many museums that the city offers. 

When you go back to your room the sun is already down. Your feet are tired from walking all day and your mind is deliciously filled with art.   
You think about all those magnificent paintings and you start wondering if Clarke had visited that museum as well during her stay. Suddenly you don't care what the rules are about calling the other person after a date – and well, that was definitely a date, you even got a kiss to prove it – and you move towards the small table that's under the window to retrieve the receipt with Clarke's number from where you left it.   
Except it isn't there.   
You look everywhere, on the floor, in the bin, under the bed, inside the drawers, but nothing.   
It's gone.

You go down to the reception, figuring that the cleaning lady must have thrown it out by mistake, but you are told that the trash has already been collected and there's nothing they can do.  
You get absurdly mad, you scream and trash, but in the end the woman is right.  
There is absolutely nothing you can do.

 

2.

Venice reminds you so much of Clarke that you're actually relieved when you take the train two days later and pass the long bridge that connects the island to the mainland, leaving its beauty and its memories behind you.

You think the entire fucking country is gonna remind you of Clarke, but you quickly change you mind when you reach your next stop.

Milan couldn't be more different from the place you left a few hours earlier. It is grey, and dirty, and you can smell the pollution in the air from the moment you exit the central station.   
You end up staying only for a day, to do some shopping, before you leave again.

Your next stop is Florence and you are immediately fascinated by the history you can breath with every step you take.  
You managed to sleep for a few hours on the train so without wasting any time you just drop your things at the hotel where you'll be staying for the next five days and immediately go outside to explore. 

You end up walking all day, lost between palaces and squares and small cobblestone streets. Just as the sun is starting to set you find a quiet cafe' and decide to sit at one of the tables outside and enjoy a light dinner.   
You are nose-deep in the menu, using your basic knowledge of italian to try and decipher the various sandwiches listed on the paper, when someone sits on the chair right in front of you.

You lift your gaze from the jumble of foreign words to kindly ask them to move, since most of the tables are unoccupied, and your breath catches.

Clarke is looking at you, a light smile on her face.   
“So I was kinda sad when you didn't call,” she starts.

It is only after almost a minute that you finally find your voice. “I lost the paper where I wrote down your number,” you tell her, ashamed. “The lady that cleaned my room threw it away.”

You imagine she will get mad, you imagine she will stand up, probably tell you to go to hell and disappear from your life.  
Instead she starts laughing, apparently amused by your embarrassed answer.

“Well,” she tells you after a moment, “if I give it to you again, do you promise you won't loose it this time?”

You reach across the table and take her hand into yours. She laces her fingers through yours and holds on, tight.

“I promise,” you whisper. And this time you know that there's no way you will ever let this girl go.


	2. prompt:cursing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually found a wiki-how page on “How to start cursing” which I found hilarious, so thanks for this prompt anon!

Clexa:cursing.

 

Sometimes you really don't understand how you could have fallen in love with someone like Lexa because, well, the girl is virtually everything you are not.

You are aware that you could double as a living poster child for rebellion. From the black leather jacket you wear all year long (despite Lexa's insistence that no, Clarke, it's not the same as wearing a winter coat, especially if it's snowing outside) to your rock band t-shirts, from the cigarette constantly pressed between your lips, to the horror you feel at the thought of a nine-to-five job, which is what ultimately convinced you to pursue a career as an artist (instead of studying medicine like your mother wanted you to).

Lexa instead is the epitome of a good girl. She's studying to become a lawyer (which, yeah, has made your mother immediately fall in love with her, figures), she always wears cute pastel dresses and flats and she's always, always infuriatingly polite.   
The time she doesn't spend studying her ass off, she does charity work. And not because she wants to put it on her resume, or to impress her future bosses, but because she truly cares about people. 

Lexa loves children, regularly gives her seat up if there is an old person or a pregnant woman on the subway who needs it, and always has a smile for everybody. 

She's basically the Dr. Jekyll to your Mr. Hyde. 

Still, you can't help feeling like all the air has been sucked from the room every time you see her face after a few hours without her. You can't help seeing the deepest of oceans and the clearest of skies every time you look into her eyes. You can't help feeling like you could drown in the softness of her lips.

Things that would make you feel caged and mothered and absolutely furious if someone else did them, instead make you swoon. 

Like finding a new pair of gloves in your jacket's pocket because she knows you get cold when you spend time drawing outside, even if you say you don't.   
Or coming home to find the apartment smelling of different flowers everyday because she loves buying them and the flower shop is just around the corner.   
Or the fact that sometimes she goes to your flat when you're not there and cleans everything, because you are messy and hate tidying up.

You think you must have done something really great in one of your past lives, because that's the only possible explanation for how lucky you feel when the two of you are laying, spent and sated, under the covers and Lexa looks at you like you hung the moon in the sky just for her.

That's why it takes you almost a full two minutes to realize what is happening right now.   
You are carrying your lovely, sweet, for the first time drunk girlfriend back to your apartment and she's cursing like a sailor who has gone a month without a drink. 

“Fuck, Clarke... crap, my feet are hurting. Why the hell did I decide to put on these fucking shoes?” 

“We're almost there,” you tell her, still stunned at her language. “Come on baby, just another block and we'll be home. Then you can take off those shoes and go to bed.”   
And I can try to understand where my girlfriend has disappeared to, you say to yourself.

After another ten minutes during which you have to repeatedly stop her from taking her shoes off , since the street is full of broken bottles thanks to the fourth of July parade that has ended only a few hours ago, you arrive at your door. 

As soon as you go inside Lexa puts her arms around your neck and starts kissing you, sloppy and still completely drunk.   
“Clarke...” she says, moving to press her lips softly against your pulse point, “shit, you're so hot.”

As much as you love her, and as much as all this swearing is seriously turning you on, you know she's not herself and so, with great effort, you take a step back and start moving the two of you towards the bedroom.

“Come on baby, come on Lexa, let's get you under the covers.”  
“But I wanna have sex with you, Clarke. I wanna make love to you, always. I love you so much, baby.”  
“I know,” you tell her, and for a second you forget about everything and just look at her. But then she sways on her feet, and you decide to leave all love declarations for tomorrow. 

You manage to change her into soft pants and a tank top and put her to bed. You already know she'll suffer a massive hung-over tomorrow, so you decide to go get a glass of water and a couple of aspirins to leave on her nightstand.  
When you get back Lexa's already asleep, curled in on herself and snoring lightly. You stifle a laugh at the sight.

You position yourself behind her, enveloping her in your arms. She relaxes at the contact, reclining back against you, and you think that there is definitely more to your girlfriend that meets the eye and you can't wait to discover everything about her.

(Also, you can't wait to tease her about the cursing until the day you die but, hey, you never said you were perfect.)


End file.
